Jack and I had barely moved into our rental when our neighbor, Lindsey, showed up with cookies and a fake smile. She wasted no time telling us the HOA allowed only one car per driveway, despite both ours fitting fine. We brushed it off, but a few days later, we woke to the sound of tow trucks hauling both our cars away. And there Lindsey was, coffee mug in hand, smirking like she’d won some suburban battle.

But she hadn’t noticed the tiny government sticker on our windshield. That night, I made a quiet call: “Civilian interference. Property tampering. Send someone in the morning.” At sunrise, a black SUV pulled up. A suited agent flashed a badge on Lindsey’s porch, informing her she’d just compromised an active undercover operation. The cost of her actions? $25,000.

Lindsey stammered excuses, insisting she’d only been following HOA rules. But the agent was firm: she’d interfered, and she was under investigation. Her mug slipped from her hands, shattering on the porch as the color drained from her face. Jack couldn’t resist adding, “Next time, don’t play sheriff of suburbia.”

We walked home in silence, leaving Lindsey frozen in her doorway. Her blinds stayed shut the rest of the day, her perfect roses untended. The cookies she’d brought still sat untouched on our counter — a reminder that in trying to control everything, she’d lost more than she ever imagined.